Lunch I don’t eat. Not here, anyway. If I didn’t work through lunch I could never afford dinner - at least not in Cortina, where I intend to be eating before long. But first I have to go to New York.
No offense, but I keep a place in the city. You don’t think my wife would have married me if she only saw this place, do you? She never set foot in this place until it was too late. She just thought I had money. Some girls are like that. They don’t ask questions. You either have money or you don’t, like big feet.
Believe it or not, Philly is where my wife’s sainted grandmother was born - way out on the main line. The grandmother met the grandfather on the grand tour, back in 1901. She saw Naples and that was the end. She died a rich widow in Posillipo and Philly became a fairy tale for the girl I married. When we met, I knew I was going to get laid the minute I said Philadelphia.
New York is a good place to spend most major holidays, since you have the place to yourself. That’s when I really love New York – Labor Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving. This year it’s Christmas, which I usually spend in Naples with my in-laws. But since the kid is on ice upstate, we’ll be sticking around these parts in case he makes like Santa with the snow.
I hope to do a lot of swimming, which I do at the JCC. That’s going be the title of my autobiography - Swimming With The Jews. The Jews are the only ones who really know how to celebrate Christmas. It’s the one day of the year when they’re not feeling guilty about having a good time. For the Christians, it’s the only day they’re feeling guilty. That’s why they go to the movies, so they can get their mind off their conscience. The Jews go out for Chinese food, where they make jokes and laugh a lot. I have reservations over at Sung Lin.
I meet a lot of famous people at the JCC. Actors, mostly. They swim when I do, which is when the pool is least crowded, which is usually during the early-bird special at the diner around the corner. That’s how I met a certain very famous comedian, who I won’t mention since I only know him nude. You can’t change the channel without finding him. He’s over 85 and he’s still working, otherwise he’d be at the diner around the corner. The man is a national treasure and I told him so, naked myself. Now we’re pals, so I have to be discreet, which is the way we are in New York. But I will tell you this; the man has the strangest ass in show business.
But that’s not what I love about him. What I love is how delicate a creature he is, and I don’t mean decrepit. Here he is, all over TV, playing an angry old Jewish guy, a regular riot, and he’s just as insecure as the rest of us. First time we met, he was on the phone in his underwear, talking to somebody who was organizing some kind of interview. They were going over the questions and the poor guy was in pain over the ordeal. Like a little kid, he was, all worried that they get the story straight, make the people understand, wondering if they’ll actually like him. This is something you learn about famous people, especially actors. They’re like little kids. They just want you to like them, unless they’re having a tantrum about not getting what they want.
My wife says that all the holidays here in America are about gluttony, which is a sin. I call Christmas the feast of ruined expectations. Nobody gets what they want, and if they do, it turns out not to be what they thought it was. Even if they get a million dollars it destroys them somehow. As for you, I’m not turning on the grill, but there’s hot coffee and the rolls are fresh.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Reason Enough
Who isn’t sad? Sadness comes with living long enough. Eventually, you loose everything. That’s why it’s good to eat. It reminds you that you love life. The last thing to go is the palate. People just don’t want to live if they can’t enjoy their food.
Some men drop dead with a hard-on. Their dick refuses to go. I’ve often thought of dying just as I was looking at some girl hailing a cab. There I am, gaping at some gam while the number 4 bus grinds me to a pulp.
My friend’s uncle copped a feel off his niece. This guy was 94, slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, barely able to move. The niece is finally coming to see her favorite uncle, who she hasn’t seen for three strokes, and she’s emotional. Everybody is amazed to see Uncle Stanley light up when he sees her. He lifts his arms, all shaky, and she rushes to hug him. Once he got a hold of her ass, he wouldn’t let go. Right up her skirt, he went.
I’m more like my other friend’s father, who was Irish. He died talking. He told me on his deathbed, where he stayed for quite a while, gabbing it up, that an Irishman was like an old shoe. The tongue is the last thing to go, he said. In my case, I’m just keeping my tongue busy while it waits for dinner.
Some men drop dead with a hard-on. Their dick refuses to go. I’ve often thought of dying just as I was looking at some girl hailing a cab. There I am, gaping at some gam while the number 4 bus grinds me to a pulp.
My friend’s uncle copped a feel off his niece. This guy was 94, slumped in a wheelchair, drooling, barely able to move. The niece is finally coming to see her favorite uncle, who she hasn’t seen for three strokes, and she’s emotional. Everybody is amazed to see Uncle Stanley light up when he sees her. He lifts his arms, all shaky, and she rushes to hug him. Once he got a hold of her ass, he wouldn’t let go. Right up her skirt, he went.
I’m more like my other friend’s father, who was Irish. He died talking. He told me on his deathbed, where he stayed for quite a while, gabbing it up, that an Irishman was like an old shoe. The tongue is the last thing to go, he said. In my case, I’m just keeping my tongue busy while it waits for dinner.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Something From Nothing
My mother-in-law is a Baroness, which in Italy is more common than it is over here. It took me years to find out, since my mother-in-law would never mention it. Being a Baroness is something she takes for granted, like we’re all Barons and Baronesses. When she dies, I think my wife becomes a Baroness, which is all I need. But since she’s a lot like her mother, I doubt it will ever come up.
A lot of people don’t know it, but my grandfather was Carmine the Barber, which also gives my family a certain responsibility. That’s why they call my mother Regina, especially now that all her sisters are gone. Everybody from back then is gone. But when my grandfather died, back in ‘64, I had 40 first cousins living in this parish, and that’s not counting the ones in the northeast, or out in Jersey. We owned the ten o’clock Mass. And we all looked alike. All those aunts and uncles and extra cousins who married into my family had to surrender their genes at the altar. It’s a good thing my grandfather was so handsome.
My mother-in-law loves to hear about my grandfather, a 15-year-old boy from Marsico, alone in America. Her own father wore spats and had a factotum. He had a cook, a driver, a groom, two chambermaids, and a nurse. My grandfather became a barber, got married, and had eight children just before the Great Depression.
I often overhear my mother-in-law talking about my grandfather to her friends, who may be inquiring just where it is I come from. They look confused, like my mother-in-law should be complaining, or dismissive. But they figure that I must belong there, otherwise I wouldn’t be there. She tells the story like a fairy tale, and Carmine is the prince. He gave haircuts for free, she says, as if never charging for a haircut was a sure sign of nobility.
When my grandfather got his barber’s license, he had every intention of getting paid, since everybody needed a haircut and there was no better way he could think of for getting 15 cents from each one of them. There was an endless supply of hair. It was a no-brainer - a win, win. But suddenly, just after he screwed his chair into the floor, nobody had 15 cents. So he just cut their hair for free and left it at that. This was an act of genius, since by the time they bombed Pearl Harbor he was the richest guy in the parish. People paid a dollar for a shave, which was like putting money in the collection basket - as much for pride as anything. And they found a thousand other ways to give back. And they came to him for everything. By the time my mother had her First Communion, he owned the four corners.
Back in Naples, during the Depression, my wife’s grandfather came up with another genius idea - every Italian’s dream, which is making money out of thin air (which the Italians pronounce ‘hair’). He bought a compressor and began to make oxygen, which was the latest thing. He became a Fascist, employed mostly Jews, and befriended the Americans during the war through their proxies in Naples – refineries that were spared the bombing, as was the Baron. By the time the war was over, he was set. And everybody in the family had jobs.
Carmine likewise kept his family busy. His two sons became barbers, eventually taking over Center City, the Northeast, and most of Jersey, what with everything they were up to, which was all legal, except for the numbers, which never hurt anybody. The girls worked shifts at the candy store, dipping ice cream and eating chocolate while the rest of the world was on the breadline. My grandmother ran the tailor shop, where a lot of other people worked. She had a cook and a maid too, but in her case it was an absolute necessity, since there was always a gang of cousins and in-laws crowding the front steps of the house and filling the first floor, over for lunch or ready for dinner. It was the Depression, after all, and everybody had to eat.
After the war, my grandfather pulled out of the four corners and moved into the big house on the other side of Broad St. He put his chair in the basement, where they all came - Frankie, Dino, and all Four Seasons – to get a free haircut. Everybody who was anybody sat in that chair, including me, and I didn’t like it one bit. But the big boys got shaves, and God only knows what they paid for that.
In Naples they’re still selling oxygen. But those American friends turned out to be not so friendly. They’ve been trying to choke the life out of my in-laws for 60 years, doing every dirty trick possible to drive them out of business. But in Naples, it pays to be Neapolitan. They all want to turn air into money. But like my father-in-law says, it’s much easier to go the other way.
A lot of people don’t know it, but my grandfather was Carmine the Barber, which also gives my family a certain responsibility. That’s why they call my mother Regina, especially now that all her sisters are gone. Everybody from back then is gone. But when my grandfather died, back in ‘64, I had 40 first cousins living in this parish, and that’s not counting the ones in the northeast, or out in Jersey. We owned the ten o’clock Mass. And we all looked alike. All those aunts and uncles and extra cousins who married into my family had to surrender their genes at the altar. It’s a good thing my grandfather was so handsome.
My mother-in-law loves to hear about my grandfather, a 15-year-old boy from Marsico, alone in America. Her own father wore spats and had a factotum. He had a cook, a driver, a groom, two chambermaids, and a nurse. My grandfather became a barber, got married, and had eight children just before the Great Depression.
I often overhear my mother-in-law talking about my grandfather to her friends, who may be inquiring just where it is I come from. They look confused, like my mother-in-law should be complaining, or dismissive. But they figure that I must belong there, otherwise I wouldn’t be there. She tells the story like a fairy tale, and Carmine is the prince. He gave haircuts for free, she says, as if never charging for a haircut was a sure sign of nobility.
When my grandfather got his barber’s license, he had every intention of getting paid, since everybody needed a haircut and there was no better way he could think of for getting 15 cents from each one of them. There was an endless supply of hair. It was a no-brainer - a win, win. But suddenly, just after he screwed his chair into the floor, nobody had 15 cents. So he just cut their hair for free and left it at that. This was an act of genius, since by the time they bombed Pearl Harbor he was the richest guy in the parish. People paid a dollar for a shave, which was like putting money in the collection basket - as much for pride as anything. And they found a thousand other ways to give back. And they came to him for everything. By the time my mother had her First Communion, he owned the four corners.
Back in Naples, during the Depression, my wife’s grandfather came up with another genius idea - every Italian’s dream, which is making money out of thin air (which the Italians pronounce ‘hair’). He bought a compressor and began to make oxygen, which was the latest thing. He became a Fascist, employed mostly Jews, and befriended the Americans during the war through their proxies in Naples – refineries that were spared the bombing, as was the Baron. By the time the war was over, he was set. And everybody in the family had jobs.
Carmine likewise kept his family busy. His two sons became barbers, eventually taking over Center City, the Northeast, and most of Jersey, what with everything they were up to, which was all legal, except for the numbers, which never hurt anybody. The girls worked shifts at the candy store, dipping ice cream and eating chocolate while the rest of the world was on the breadline. My grandmother ran the tailor shop, where a lot of other people worked. She had a cook and a maid too, but in her case it was an absolute necessity, since there was always a gang of cousins and in-laws crowding the front steps of the house and filling the first floor, over for lunch or ready for dinner. It was the Depression, after all, and everybody had to eat.
After the war, my grandfather pulled out of the four corners and moved into the big house on the other side of Broad St. He put his chair in the basement, where they all came - Frankie, Dino, and all Four Seasons – to get a free haircut. Everybody who was anybody sat in that chair, including me, and I didn’t like it one bit. But the big boys got shaves, and God only knows what they paid for that.
In Naples they’re still selling oxygen. But those American friends turned out to be not so friendly. They’ve been trying to choke the life out of my in-laws for 60 years, doing every dirty trick possible to drive them out of business. But in Naples, it pays to be Neapolitan. They all want to turn air into money. But like my father-in-law says, it’s much easier to go the other way.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Law of Gravity
If I knew then what I know now, everything would be different. Or maybe not. Life can be frustrating that way. For example, I just spent four days in therapy up at the rehab center in the middle of nowhere where we finally sent my stepson - me, my wife, and a bunch of other parents whose lives have been wrecked by having a kid on drugs. Sometimes we saw the kids, but mostly it was just the rest of us.
Basically, I spent four days being told I was right, but there was little joy in knowing. Sometimes, they used my exact words. To my stepson: there is a price to pay for being you. The law of gravity applies equally to everyone. And to my wife: there is no moment of change. Change is gradual and painful. But the kicker was surreal, my late mantra, word for word: at this point, the only thing you can provide is the trash bag in which to put his shit before placing it outside the front door.
My wife used to keep a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do with my stepson. No physical intimidation whatsoever. Then came words I wasn’t allowed, a list to which the kid was free to add, just in case I ever actually offended him. Shit stain, no, sleaze bag, no, skanky weasel, no. I finally settled on calling him a lizard. Mister Lizard. You’re like a reptile, I told him, complete with the cold blood. This was fine for a while, until my wife sat me down and told me that I was no longer allowed to call him a reptile, as it was hurting his feelings. What feelings, I wanted to know. So you can only imagine my surprise when we all had to sit still for two hours for a fascinating lecture about the limbic system entitled Your Lizard Brain.
Now my wife has me up on a pedestal, but it won’t last. One thing is for sure, the kid is on ice through the winter - unless he runs away, of course, which he’s already done once (he got as far as the gas station). In the first two weeks he also pilfered a cellphone, pierced his own ear (he borrowed a heroin user’s stud to keep it open), shoplifted cough syrup to get high with his new runaway best friend, and stuffed the toilets in his dorm to flood the halls. And that’s what they know about. My first question when I sat down with the councilor was: does anybody ever get kicked out of here? The short answer was: not at these prices.
He is free to leave at any time, which is a rule of thumb – and his only means of transport. And now that he’s 18, he’s downright scary. Even he doesn’t expect anybody to stop and give him a ride. I gave him money for a haircut about 3 times over the last couple of months. He swears he still has every penny, tucked away in a little box somewhere. If that were true, he could have flown to Miami. Where do you keep this box, I asked him, up your nose?
My wife says there’s no room for cynicism, which at this point is all I got. It’s the closest thing to a bright side I can find, and you know me, I’m an optimist. And if you think cynicism precludes optimism, you’re wrong. This is not a point I can expect my wife to concede. Sometimes, being correct means being lonely, which is more pitiable than it sounds, and which appears to be the price for being me.
Good luck with your party. At least you don’t have to worry about the food. There’s hot pepper in the sauce and I put fresh breadcrumbs on the artichokes, with capers I got on Lipari. And the eggplant we did on the press, so the grill marks are perfect, which I know is how you like it.
Basically, I spent four days being told I was right, but there was little joy in knowing. Sometimes, they used my exact words. To my stepson: there is a price to pay for being you. The law of gravity applies equally to everyone. And to my wife: there is no moment of change. Change is gradual and painful. But the kicker was surreal, my late mantra, word for word: at this point, the only thing you can provide is the trash bag in which to put his shit before placing it outside the front door.
My wife used to keep a list of things I wasn’t allowed to do with my stepson. No physical intimidation whatsoever. Then came words I wasn’t allowed, a list to which the kid was free to add, just in case I ever actually offended him. Shit stain, no, sleaze bag, no, skanky weasel, no. I finally settled on calling him a lizard. Mister Lizard. You’re like a reptile, I told him, complete with the cold blood. This was fine for a while, until my wife sat me down and told me that I was no longer allowed to call him a reptile, as it was hurting his feelings. What feelings, I wanted to know. So you can only imagine my surprise when we all had to sit still for two hours for a fascinating lecture about the limbic system entitled Your Lizard Brain.
Now my wife has me up on a pedestal, but it won’t last. One thing is for sure, the kid is on ice through the winter - unless he runs away, of course, which he’s already done once (he got as far as the gas station). In the first two weeks he also pilfered a cellphone, pierced his own ear (he borrowed a heroin user’s stud to keep it open), shoplifted cough syrup to get high with his new runaway best friend, and stuffed the toilets in his dorm to flood the halls. And that’s what they know about. My first question when I sat down with the councilor was: does anybody ever get kicked out of here? The short answer was: not at these prices.
He is free to leave at any time, which is a rule of thumb – and his only means of transport. And now that he’s 18, he’s downright scary. Even he doesn’t expect anybody to stop and give him a ride. I gave him money for a haircut about 3 times over the last couple of months. He swears he still has every penny, tucked away in a little box somewhere. If that were true, he could have flown to Miami. Where do you keep this box, I asked him, up your nose?
My wife says there’s no room for cynicism, which at this point is all I got. It’s the closest thing to a bright side I can find, and you know me, I’m an optimist. And if you think cynicism precludes optimism, you’re wrong. This is not a point I can expect my wife to concede. Sometimes, being correct means being lonely, which is more pitiable than it sounds, and which appears to be the price for being me.
Good luck with your party. At least you don’t have to worry about the food. There’s hot pepper in the sauce and I put fresh breadcrumbs on the artichokes, with capers I got on Lipari. And the eggplant we did on the press, so the grill marks are perfect, which I know is how you like it.
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